


Baptised in blood

by Sternenfeuer



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-14 11:57:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13007295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sternenfeuer/pseuds/Sternenfeuer
Summary: An unexpected assault of the BLU team leaves the RED Medic alone in the hands of his enemies, who have a perfect use for him: their Scout hasn't scored a single kill since he joined them and it's a high time for him to prove he is a mercenary worth his money and his position in the team. All he has to do is to pull the trigger.





	Baptised in blood

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration came from the lovely piece of art called Games are over by NerryKirai on deviantArt, who kindly allowed me to build a story around the picture. The setting is slightly shifted from the merry shenanigans of everyone's favorite mercenaries to the more gritty reality of a private war deprived of the many of the in-game mechanisms, especially respawn. Medic and Spy are the only canon characters here.

At 14:25, the BLUs broke the ceasefire.

At 14:26, the guard on the east control point requested backup, which was sent out immediately.

At 14:35, the contact between the defence group and the RED base was lost.

At 14:52, Scout stumbled to the base, exhausted and bleeding, urging everyone present and fit to fight to help the rest of the team.

It was barely twenty minutes ago, but for Demoman and Medic it already felt like hours. Since the previous group took their only remaining vehicle, they were forced to go on foot and no amount of effort they put into this race with time could have changed the fact they were moving too slow.

The force of distant explosions was shaking the ground beneath their feet, making running on the rough terrain the more difficult the closer to the battleground they got. Yet both men considered the continuous fire to be a good sign and prayed for it not to stop; as long as the battle went on, there was still someone who could use their assistance.

Unfortunately, neither this certainty nor growing pressure could fuel Demoman forever, and soon he began to fall behind. He was never built for an excessive running and his advanced age wasn't helping. His weapons felt heavier with each step he made, and the burning pain in his side rendered breathing nearly impossible. He needed a break to catch his breath and to get rid of that pesky black dots dancing in his field of vision.

Even a couple of seconds would have been sufficient, however, it was a couple of seconds he wasn't allowed. Medic refused to show any sympathy for his teammate's fading strength - when he realized Demoman is no longer by his side, he doubled back with an irritated growl and ruthlessly grabbed the other man's shoulder, yanking him forward.

"We don't have time for this! Move! _Schnell!_ "

Despite the hot climate of New Mexico, the impatient shout sent chills down Demoman's spine. During the World War II he served his fair share on the European battlefront and being screamed at in German had a nasty habit of bringing back some unpleasant memories. He shot his companion an angry glare, because he told him so more than once.

Medic didn't even notice, let alone cared. His whole attention was focused on the echoes of the battle which started to lose its pace. It wasn't a good sign and the look on the doctor's face was a proof of that.

"Move, damn you!"

Another rough tug on Demoman's arm almost sent him face-first to the ground. His intestines curled into a tight ball. Not because of an imminent danger they rushed towards to – he was long used to that. It was the shadow of fear in Medic's voice what made Demoman to bite back the pain of his overstrained muscles and to break into the run again.

Gunshots and explosions had grown even more sporadic and soon they died away altogether. Demoman cursed under his breath as Medic abandoned all effort to keep together with him and darted forward. He had no choice but to gather all his remaining strength and pick up the speed, because a dead field medic was the last thing their team needed.

Jagged red rocks surrounding them finally parted, revealing a small cluster of long-abandoned concrete buildings in various stages of destruction. This structure has marked the current border between their own territory and the area controlled by the BLUs, and in the past few weeks it has been a scene of frequent clashes. The continuous streak of bitter failures that enemy team has suffered here must have really got to them if they were willing to risk the punishment for an unauthorized assault. But if what Scout managed to tell them before he lost consciousness was true, their gamble was paying off so far.

Out of breath, Demoman finally caught up with Medic, who pressed himself against the large boulder near the gate in the fence running around the compound and was observing the situation with rifle at ready. His face lacked both expression and healthy colour, jaws clenched and eyes wide. The heart of the greying Canadian dropped when he slid down beside his teammate and peeked over the edge of the boulder.

"Oh, shit..."

The ragged clouds of smoke covering the battleground weren't thick enough to hide the bodies. Mutilated remains of what once were human beings littered small, concrete-paved courtyard mixed with dropped weapons, debris, and a wreckage of several sentries and both of their cars. Blood was everywhere, its intense smell beating even the stench of a gunpowder and leaving a coppery taste in their mouths. Demoman gagged and spat hoping he'll get rid of it, though the sickly-sweet coat kept stuck to his tongue no matter how hard he tried.

Nothing was moving down there, indicating the BLUs haven't left their positions yet. Medic took a wary look around to estimate where they could be hiding. He noticed neither movement nor any sound indicating a persisting presence of the enemy combatants. That was odd. A team not securing the captured control point right away was something unheard-of.

"Where the hell are those fuckers?" Demoman whispered, equally puzzled. "Why'd they vanish without tearing the flag down at least?"

"Maybe they too suffered heavy causalities and rather withdrew? Or perhaps the management ordered them back for violating the agreement?"

"You really think so?"

"It is a possibility," Medic shrugged.

"I say we should wait."

"Well, I can't. Someone may still be alive there. I need to get to them."

Demoman opened his mouth to protest and promptly shut it again when Medic glared at him. Trying to talk him out of his intention would be a waste of breath. There was a stubbornness, and then there was Medic who had a work to do. So instead of arguing, Demoman just sighed. "Okay. But let me go first."

With an utmost caution he sneaked out of the cover, finger on the trigger of his rifle, ready to back up immediately on the slightest sign of an enemy action. Except for there was none. No shooting, no shouting, not even a single rock thrown his way. 

He took a few steps to the gate. Still nothing, only silence and the oppressive reek of death.

When Demoman reached the courtyard without encountering any resistance, he motioned Medic to follow him and kept scanning the surroundings, while the doctor hurried past him to the nearest fallen man.

There was a little hope anyone survived the massacre, but it was hope nonetheless and he wasn't willing to give it up just yet. One by one, Medic checked the bodies, all clad in red safe for a charred corpse of the BLU Spy, and with each man pronounced dead beyond all doubts his frustration grew.  
The main defence was literally torn to shreds; dismembered limbs and other body parts scattered all around the place in such a mess it was next to impossible to tell which piece belonged to whom. 

Soldier was lying in the entrance of the nearest building; his intestines sprawled around him in a twisted resemblance of snakes slithering out of the nest. His body was still twitching, and Medic could have sworn he heard him gasp for breath less than a second before he kneeled beside the man, but he was greeted only by the glossy, empty gaze fixed on the ceiling. Medic grated his teeth and tightly squeezed his eyelids before letting out a furious grunt. He then gently closed his comrade's eyes and left the house.

Demoman shot him a questioning look. Medic shook his head and turned away to avoid the demolition expert's face contorted with pain.

He had yet to find Pyro. The little firebug was nowhere to be seen, and the doctor inwardly prayed for at least one team member to escape this carnage. Most of their firepower was gone already and what remained wasn't enough to keep the BLU back for long. It will take days before the reinforcements get here and it was hard to imagine the other team won't take an advantage of the situation to wipe their hated rivals out for good.

A weak moan came from the direction of the large stack of empty crates and old metal containers. Medic snapped out of his gloomy musing and followed the silent groaning, which led him to the small space between two large crates.

Pyro was huddled in the farthest corner, his head bowed and his arms wrapped around his bleeding torso, rocking slowly back and forth. He was mumbling something incoherent, unaware of his surroundings or the man who gingerly touched his shoulder.

"Pyro. Pyro, can you hear me?"

Medic made a mental note the injured mercenary is absolutely unresponsive to both voice and a physical contact, but since none of the bullet holes in the thick fireproof suit indicated any imminently life-threatening wound, he concluded the apathy is most likely the result of a shock and a blood loss. Nothing he couldn't fix. Pyro will live, maybe with a few stitches here and there, but live nonetheless. They will be weakened, sure, yet still able to put up a decent fight till the new forces arrive.

First of all, he needed to drag Pyro out of his hiding spot to treat his wounds. He moved to the injured man's side, threw Pyro's arm over his shoulder and tried to lift him up.

The sudden shriek and violent convulsion that run through the bullet-riddled body started him. His surprise soon turned into consternation, when he spotted a bulk of a slimy dark mass covering the back of Pyro's head that he missed before due to a lack of light. Medic carefully laid his teammate back down to examine him better.

 _"Mein Gott…"_ was all he managed to utter.

"What happened?" Demoman blurted. He left his guarding post near the gate upon hearing the scream to check out the situation. There wasn't much to be seen though – only the prone shape of Pyro jerking occasionally with slight spasms and Medic hunched over him with his shoulders stooped. The doctor was breathing heavily, one hand clenched into a fist and pressed against his helmet, muttering for himself in a tone that sounded more like a growling than a human voice.

" _Nein!_ This is unacceptable!"

The outburst was so abrupt Demoman recoiled from him.

"This - this is -… I will not -..." 

His voice trailed off and Medic hit the metal side of the container behind his back. His teammate flinched and then sighed. It didn't matter what Medic intended to say, there was nothing he could possibly do. Demoman was no doctor, but he was sure no-one can live with a hole in their skull this big. And with so much brain matter outside the said skull. It was a miracle Pyro lasted this long.

"C'mon, Doc." The older man smiled, although it wasn't an easy task when faced with Medic's silent, impotent rage. "We better -"

The rest of his words was cut off by the heavy machine gun fire. Medic lifted his head just in time to see his comrade being swept with a shower of bullets his flak jacket had no chance to stop.

"Demo!"

The only answer was a mean laughter from the rocks circling the compound, followed by the sound of multiple voices arguing and laughing some more. Medic cursed, jumped to his feet and bolted in the direction of a hole torn in the fence by a stray grenade he noticed earlier. A couple of bullets whizzed past him, but he learned long time ago how to not to get hit easily, much to the displeasure of the enemy team, especially their snipers.

The anger was choking him. Of course this was a trap! Of course the BLUs waited for them to march right into their sights! They just withhold their attack long enough to give their opponents time to find all of the bodies.

Another bullet missed his body so close it tore through his sleeve. Medic snatched his pistol out of its holster and fired a couple of rounds in return. Not that he hoped to actually kill someone – the BLUs were hiding on the other side of the battleground, safely covered with rocks, but anything that would make them back off for a few seconds he needed to squeeze through the fence was sufficient at the moment.

Once outside, Medic began to regret he forgot his rifle by the Pyro's body. His old P38, no matter how good and reliable, wasn't a decent match for weapons of the BLUs' assault force and even when he had no desire to engage in a direct combat, he would have felt a little bit better with something more powerful in his hands. His regret was, however, very short-lived. He barely registered the massive man in a blue uniform who suddenly jumped from behind the rock and struck him with the butt of his shotgun.

Luckily for the doctor, his helmet shielded him from everything worse than a deafening ringing in his ears, but the sheer force of the impact sent him flying against another rock, which he managed to hit head-first. The ringing was doubled, followed by a dry snap of the strap holding the helmet in place. 

Hardly seeing anything through the veil of golden stars dancing in front of his eyes, Medic fired at the figure approaching him. Both bullets missed their target and the BLU didn't give him a chance to correct his aim. 

He grasped Medic's wrist and smashed his hand against the rock, making him yelp in pain and drop the pistol, while gripping lapels of the RED's coat with his other hand at the same time. 

The doctor managed to reach for his modified bone saw and attempted to open his adversary's abdominal cavity; unfortunately, the blade slid off the BLU's body armour, leaving him with a shallow cut in his side. 

"You're one stubborn bastard, I'll give you that," chuckled the man, according to his gear the BLU's own demolition specialist, and with one swing on his fist he brought Medic down before the doctor could have stabbed him in some less protected part of the body.

Medic's world exploded into a supernova of pain. Dancing stars were back and so was the ringing in his ears, newly accompanied by a feeling his brain was replaced with a ball of wet cotton. He tried to move, but his body refused to cooperate and the bigger part of his mind was persuading him he doesn't want to move anyway. 

Medic groaned, desperately struggling to shake off the stun with a little success. Somewhere, someone was laughing at him. Most likely the same someone who then took away his medical bag and tied him up with a piece of cord.

"Not so tough now, are you?" The BLU nudged his catch with the tip of the boot. "Or do you still want to fight? Huh?"

With another nudge, Medic just let out a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Yeah, I thought so."

The Demoman was about to deliver another lovely remark on the defeated RED's account, when the P38 lying aside caught his attention. He picked it up and swept it clean of the sand, his piggy eyes lighting up with a pure joy.

"Well damn, just look at this little beauty!" he exclaimed and turned to Medic, lifting the gun in the air. "You know, my pa brought the same one back from the war. Took it from one of you Nazi swines he killed. Wish he'd still be alive so I could tell him I got me one, too."

Medic heartily wished the gun would jam and burst the first time the Demoman will attempt to shoot it, taking all of his fingers and maybe a part of his face out in the process.

Indifferent to the hatred his captive eyed him with, the BLU admired the pistol for a couple more seconds before he clicked the safety on, hid the loot in his pocket and bent down to Medic.

"Okay, Kraut, enough lying around for you. Get your lazy ass up."

He took the RED by his arm and forced him back to his feet. Medic immediately staggered and almost collapsed back; multiple blows to the head left him shaken and dizzy and the world hasn't stopped to spin around him just yet. Everything was blurry and he briefly wondered if he hasn't suffered a concussion after all. Only after he inclined his head to his shoulder to adjust his glasses he realized they were gone, most likely knocked-off when he fell. He glanced at the ground the same moment something crunched.

"Oops," the Demoman grinned and moved his foot from the sad small pile of wire and broken glass, his voice filled with fake remorsefulness. "Did you need that?"

Medic shot him the nastiest glare he had in his arsenal. This was pretty low even for the standards of the enemy team, and he had no intention to honour this pathetic excuse for a human being with an actual answer. 

The Demoman merely laughed and proceeded to drag his captive back to the battlegrounds. There was a little point in resisting, weakened and incapacitated as he was, so Medic yielded for now and followed the BLU without a word.

In the time it took them to reach the gate of the overrun control point, Medic managed to pull himself together to a certain extend. The slight sickness was gone and he was able to see clearly again, or at least as clearly as anyone else with the corresponding prescription. When he looked around the compound, though, he suddenly wished to be struck blind.

Half of the BLU team wandered around the courtyard, laughing and wild with joy over the devastating defeat they delivered to their rivals. None of them could resist not only to mock their dead enemies, but to humiliate their remains as well. The BLU Heavy was the worst: he was kicking around the torn off head of his RED counterpart and apparently enjoyed himself way too much. Medic averted his eyes away from the disgusting sight, the knot in his stomach turning into a lump of ice so cold it burned. He spat out a colourful curse accompanied by a spray of blood trickling from his nose and lips. The Demoman responded with a cackle and called at the BLU Soldier, who was overseeing the burning of the RED's flag with deep satisfaction.

"Hey, boss, look what I found."

The Soldier turned around and the sight of the captive brought about an even wider grin on his face.

"Well, well, well, what an unexpected surprise… How nice of you to join us, _Herr Doktor._ "

"What do you want from me, _Schweinehund?_ " Medic growled, voice full of an undiluted hate. The question was more of a formality though; he already formed a rather accurate idea about what to expect.

A total disinterest in prisoners on both sides of the conflict has been one of the few rules this trifling endless war followed. Neither team ever had anything worth enough to exchange the taken combatants for, trying to rescue them from the enemy base was too risky, and their employers couldn't care less about the lives of the men they have paid to kill each other over many past decades. Mercenaries were an easily accessible, expendable, and a relatively cheap commodity no-one expected to last longer than a couple of months. Therefore the only thing an occasional captive had a chance to look forward to was an unpleasant death in one of the many creative ways mercenaries devised for their enemies, especially for those less popular among the rival team. And Medic knew all too well the sentiments the BLUs had for him.

The Soldier had no intention to answer him anyway. He whistled at their Scout and motioned him to join them, and when the young man trotted to his side, the BLUs' commanding officer pointed at their captive.

"You're always making that stupid excuse it's too hard for you to concentrate on hitting someone in the battle, so I thought we'll get you started on a stationary target first. What do you say, buddy?"

The Scout glanced at Medic and gulped, eyes wide. The blow that landed on the youth's back indicated it wasn't the sort of a response the Soldier would find acceptable. He grabbed the Scout by the front of his shirt, drew him closer to his face and hissed, "Listen, you little sissy, I've had enough of this comedy. You're a goddamn mercenary, and you better start to act like one if you want to keep this job." He pressed a pistol into the Scout's hand and slapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, show us you've got some balls!"

Although it shouldn't be physically possible, the BLU's eyes went even wider, wandering from the weapon to his commander and finally to Medic, who watched him as one watches some disgusting insect, and gulped again. He felt as if the cold blue gaze of the captive inspected his very soul with an utmost meticulousness and judged everything it found there.

While the Scout was turning pale and a sweat broke on his skin, Medic quickly went through everything he knew about this sad bundle of nerves. Small and scrawny like most of his kind and in his early twenties, the boy was a fresh recruit who came here less than two weeks ago, and so far he proved himself to be a decent scout but a miserable fighter. He avoided conflicts of any sort like a plague and when cornered, he trashed the cudgel he called a weapon about in a blind panic until he managed to create an opening that would allow him to escape. Medic had to deal with a handful of results of these awkward fights, and the worse injury so far was one fractured ulna and one festered set of teeth neatly imprinted in their own Scout's ankle.  
In the doctor's professional opinion the BLUs' newest addition didn't have a single murderous bone in his body, which, in a certain light, was quite amusing, even more when compared to his RED counterpart. That spry little weasel wasn't even old enough to get served in the nearest pub, yet he was a cold-blooded killer by nature, a fact he never forgot to announce to the every opponent he slain.

And this weakling was supposed to execute him? A corner of the Medic's mouth tugged upwards and his eyes narrowed. The BLU Scout was right after all: he was weighted and found wanting, the condemning verdict written in the doctor's sneer.

Medic was born with a face made for this contemptuous, disdainful look, and thanks to the decades of forced interactions with morons, a frequent practice polished it to the peak of perfection. It was too easy to destroy this anxious boy. He watched with hidden delight as the Scout's hands wrapped around the grip of the pistol started to shake and his chin followed soon after. 

Medic barely suppressed a burst of laughter. Good God, if only he managed to make the bastard cry! Not that would change anything about his fate, but the accomplishment alone would make a bullet to the head a little more bearable.

The BLU Soldier enjoyed the embarrassment of his subordinate a lot less. With muttered insults addressed equally to both men he seized the Scout by his neck and shook him like a misbehaved puppy. 

"Pull yourself together, wuss!" he snapped at the youth, spit spattering from his mouth. "What the hell is your problem? Do you seriously let that Nazi bastard –" (Medic just rolled his eyes.) "- to get into you like that? Do you?!"

The Scout was gaping at him, now without any doubt on the verge of tears. It was the Soldier's turn to roll his eyes. His hand shot forward, grasping Medic's collar and pulling the taller man down to the Scout's eye-level.

"Are you really getting your panties in a bunch over _this?_ "

He shook their captive violently. Medic gasped and gritted his teeth in an attempt to maintain his stern expression despite the considerable discomfort.

The Soldier turned back to the Scout. "Look at him," he nudged the youth. "Look at him, dammit!"

Reluctantly, the Scout raised his head to meet Medic's gaze. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on something else than those soul-piercing eyes filled with a silent scorn. On the muscles in the RED's face strained with stress and pain; on the bruises, scrapes and blood staining his skin; on the dark circles under his eyes as a testament of countless nights spent on treating the wounds of his teammates – the very same teammates whose bodies now laid scattered around them. 

The Scout realized he's looking at a beaten, worn out, wounded man, who like a cornered animal tries to scare the enemy away by pretending he's a lot stronger and more dangerous than he actually is. His trembling slowly ceased and the youth relaxed a little.

The Soldier smirked and shoved Medic back. "He ain't so scary after all, huh? Come on, put him out of his misery. You will do this world a favour."

It took the Scout several seconds to muster the strength to lift the pistol and place its sights on the man in front of him and even longer to put his finger on the trigger.

Medic didn't even cringe. He stood there tall, his back straight as is he was receiving an award and not a death sentence, and simply watched the youth.

The Scout held his breath and turned his head away a bit, fighting the urge to close his eyes. His throat tightened. He felt the stares of his teammates who sauntered closer to them to watch the show. His anxiety sneaked back and squeezed his frantically beating heart with such a force his vision blurred. His hand trembled. The Scout sucked in a deep breath and tightened his grip on the pistol to stop the shaking, to no avail.

He couldn't do it. A subtle smirk grazed Medic's lips and was gone again in a split second. The Scout shot him a helpless look only to be stared down by the eyes whose expression mirrored his own thoughts.

_No, you can't do it. You don't have what it takes. Run home to your mother, little boy, this is no place for you._

"Jesus," the Demoman sighed when the Scout lowered the gun, shaking his head in defeat. "Kid, you're a bloody disgrace to all of us."

Medic didn't even attempt to suppress his smug sneer. A punch in the face threw him a couple of steps back, turning everything around him into the kaleidoscope of lights once again and nearly knocking him to the ground.

"I've never seen anyone as pathetic as you," snarled the Soldier at the poor Scout and rubbed his bloodied knuckles. "Really, you're a waste of both money and space. This RED swine killed Stan, for crying out loud!" he pointed at the doctor with a furious grimace.

Stan? Medic raised an eyebrow. Oh, right. That sniper he used as a graphic demonstration of his slightly lax attitude to certain articles of the Hippocratic Oath two days ago. Well, as far as he was concerned, the man was an idiot and had no-one to blame but himself – he should have found less obvious sniping post and paid more attention to his surroundings.

Judging by the stifling silence which followed the Soldier's words it was a sensitive subject around here. When the Scout finally spoke, his voice was quiet and empty and his gaze hasn't left the tips of his shoes.

"That was him?"

"And who else, you twerp? They're all a bunch of rotten assholes, but at least the rest of them have the decency to just shot the man and be done with it instead of GUTTING HIM LIKE A GODDAMN ANIMAL!"

The last part the Soldier screamed right into the RED's ear. Medic flinched, disgusted by the few drops of spit that landed on his cheek. 

The BLU's commander turned back to the Scout. "So what? You let him get away with that?"

The youth shook his head. "No."

That single hushed word dripped with murder. Medic shuddered. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the boy had that in him and only needed the right motivation.

To make sure he won't try that snake-and-bird game again, the Soldier seized their captive, turned him around and brought him down to his knees. A sharp pain that shot out of his joints upon hard collision with the concrete ground forced a grunt of pain out of Medic, much to the BLU's pleasure.

"You better start praying, you piece of shit," the Soldier hissed at him and then beckoned to the Scout who lifted his gun again.

Medic could almost feel the pistol's muzzle pointed at the back of his head. A cold slowly crept up his spine, digging its sharp little claws into his entrails. He held his breath and braced himself for the bullet.

It was just so annoying! He wasn't done here, not by far. Too many unfinished projects, too many promising experiments in progress… too many teammates to avenge. He glanced to his left where one of the torn bodies laid on the edge of his field of vision. Somewhere deep inside he felt a sting of shame. Those men were his responsibility and he failed them.

And not just the men. An image of a white dove emerged in front of his eyes, thrusting a spike of pain through his heart. To this day he never realized how fond he grew of that little ball of feathers and mischief that came to his care by an accident. Surprised, he noticed an unfamiliar stinging in his eyes. Fantastic. Now he will tear up over a pigeon. How dignifying.

He wished the BLU pulled the trigger already to spare him this agony. What was taking him so long anyway? He heard the Scout's heavy breathing and imagined the youth's face wrinkled with a concentration in a fight against his own nature. The fact he didn't shot Medic the moment he heard about his dead friend was enough to prove he wasn't born for murder, no matter the circumstances. He sighed. This will be a long afternoon…

Behind his back, the Soldier placed his hand on the Scout's shoulder and hummed: "Come on, son. Do it. For Stan."

The Scout closed his eyes. In his inner sight floated the gory vision of his friend, or more likely of what the good doctor left of him. A cocktail of grief and hate filled his veins. He opened his eyes again and this time there was no sign of a hesitation. He made a decision.

A gunshot rang loudly within the rock circle, instantly followed by a second one. Medic collapsed to the ground, a blood pooling around his head. 

With another gunshot, the Soldier jerked and fell across the Scout's lifeless body. A neat little hole an inch above the bridge of his nose mirrored the wound of his teammate.

Only now the rest of the BLU team collected themselves. All three men dove into the nearest cover and showered everything in the direction of the enemy gunman with bullets. The sniper didn't seem to be bothered, though, and kept landing a shot after shot all over their positions too close for the BLUs' comfort, preventing them from leaving their hiding spots.

The Demoman carefully peaked from around the corner of the house that shielded him. He was sure he spotted a flash from the enemy's rifle, and even if he was wrong, a couple of grenades send in the bastard's direction couldn't hurt. Not his team, at least. And it will be an act of mercy to send this poor lone RED to the rest of his squad.

With a wave of the hand, he caught the attention of their Pyro, and gestured him to distract the sniper. His teammate nodded and changed his position, pretending he's trying to move forward. The marksman immediately shifted his focus, which allowed the Demoman to take a good aim at the presumptive sniper nest. Yes, he was right. There it was, the long barrel reflecting the sunlight, and what appeared to be a part of the shoulder. The BLU grinned.

"Gotcha!"

A long, sleek blade slipped into his back with a sickening squelch, made its way between the Demoman's ribs and buried straight to his heart. The man's body arched back and the grenade launcher fell out of his hands. With a gurgle and a blood spurting out of his mouth, the BLU slid to the feet of his killer; feet wearing shoes absurdly expensive and somewhat impractical for the desert terrain.

"'Gotcha' indeed," grimaced the RED Spy and nonchalantly put a bullet right between the lenses of the Pyro's mask. He then rushed to the corpse and appropriated one of the thermite grenades the deceased arsonist was so fond of.

The BLU Heavy barely had the time to recognize the small cylindrical object that landed on his cover right before his world turned into a white-hot hell. A muffled bang was followed by an inhuman scream and a figure covered in flames that darted from behind the stack of containers, howling and trashing about in a hopeless attempt to extinguish the all-consuming heat for a few seconds, before it collapsed into the burning pile of a melting tissue and gear.

If this unappealing show affected Spy in any way, emotions didn't reach his collected exterior. He signalled to his teammate the area is clear and hurried to the Medic's still form. He knelt down beside the body and breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed his chest moves. He gently shook his comrade's shoulder.

_"Docteur?"_

Medic opened his eyes only to shoot Spy a reproving look. "I'm fairly certain I forbid you to leave the sickbay just yet."

The masked man chuckled and stepped over him to untie his hands. "Would you rather if I'd stayed there indeed?" he teased Medic while helping him to sit up.

"Not really," admitted the doctor and raised his hand to the deep gash on his temple that kept bleeding quite a lot. Spy took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it on the wound.

Hasty footsteps were heard approaching, and soon after Sniper appeared from behind one of the buildings; a stocky, dark-skinned man with a rifle slung over one of his shoulder and a medicinal bag he came across on his way there over the other. If there ever was a picture of heartiness, his face couldn't be farther from it. He dropped the bag to Medic's feet and snapped at him: "You've got a lot more luck than you deserve, you damn bastard!"

Medic looked up at him, astounded. _"Was?"_

"I'm afraid your excellent corpse impersonation was a bit too convincing for our poor Sniper's taste," explained Spy and fished a package of bandages out of the bag.

He refrained from describing a short yet intense argument he had with the marksman not five minutes ago, when he tried to persuade him to take a shot at the BLU Scout. Sniper hesitated, (rightfully) afraid his death spasm can cause the youth to pull the trigger all the same, urging his teammate to take some action himself. It took Spy a significant effort to explain to Sniper he's the only one of them who can do something in time – if he will shoot the Scout, Medic may die, but if he won't do it, their comrade will die for sure. 

Eventually, Sniper took the risk and spent the whole combat worried sick his fear came true. Judging by his expression, it will cost Medic a good number of drinks before Sniper will deign to grant the doctor his full forgiveness.

Medic gave a small laugh. "I apologize then. I didn't mean to scare you. I just wasn't too keen about being finished off in the last second." He hissed and winced when Spy pressed on his wound some more. "I have to admit I didn't expect to get out of this alive at all. _Danke, Kameraden._ "

" _De rien._ We have lost too many already to let you die as well."

The RED trio looked around the courtyard. While they managed to defend the control point, the prize they paid was too high for them to feel victorious despite the revenge they wreaked on the BLU. No amount of slain enemies could bring their teammates back to life.

Spy's gaze stopped on the remains of Engineer, then dropped to the ground. Sniper patted him on the shoulder. He knew the two men shared a bond as close to the friendship as mercenaries were able to form in this world where men came and went so fast it was pointless to remember their real names, and felt for him. 

His teammate thanked him with a weak smile. It was always nice to see that regardless the life ruled by the law of the jungle they were able to retain at least some humanity

Medic mumbled something.

"Come again, pal?"

"We were too late," the doctor repeated quietly. His voice quavered with guilt.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't make any difference," sighed Spy. "You can't perform miracles."

"I wish I could."

"Don't we all? Just be glad we made it here in time."

Medic didn't answer. He felt that if nothing else, Demoman's death was his fault. He should have been more careful and properly check the area first to make sure the BLUs are indeed gone, instead of blindly risking their lives for a pile of corpses.

A couple of minutes of stifling silence later, Medic's head finally ceased to bleed. It was about time; the amount of blood the injured man was losing was concerning. Their base was over two miles away, they had no mobile vehicle at their disposal, and Medic was a bit too heavy for Spy and Sniper to carry him that far.

Spy carefully pushed aside a few strands of dark hair to inspect the wound. In the gory break of the skin gleamed a white surface of the skull. Spy whistled. " _Merde_ … Sniper was right. You _are_ lucky."

"I know."

Instead of looking at him, Medic focused his eyes on the small dent in the concrete near his foot, where the bullet from the Scout's pistol ended up after grazing his temple. Had the youth didn't jerk when Sniper shot him, the bullet would have gone straight to the Medic's head.

While he mused how fast would have his brain shut down after being pierced by a piece of metal, Spy bandaged his wound and took Medic under the arm.

"Very well, _docteur,_ up we go."

Spy wasn't sure if it was the cause of his own injury that left him bedridden for over the last two weeks, or if Medic somehow put on more weight in the meantime, but without Sniper's help he would have never been able to pull the doctor up.

Medic's vision blurred and he nearly blacked out. What was merely a bearable sickness as long as he was sitting on the ground abruptly turned into a nausea the moment he got on his feet. He barely had the time to turn away before his stomach decided to evacuate all of its content.

Spy caught him by the shoulder to keep him upright and patiently waited until his teammate had nothing left to vomit.

"Better?"

Medic grumbled something that didn't sound exactly polite. He had a trouble to catch his breath and when he reached for the flask to rinse his mouth, his hand was shaking so badly he missed a few times before he was able to take a gulp.

"You think you can walk?" Sniper asked with a visible concern, observing his comrade's pale, sweaty face.

" _Ja_ … just a _moment mal, bitte._ " Medic leaned against the container and pressed his hand against his forehead to ease the painful throbbing in his skull. "Also, would one of you mind to search the BLU Demoman? _Der Schweinehund_ took my gun and I'd like to have it back."

The pistol was soon found and returned to its rightful owner, who then decided the worst of his dizziness passed and he is willing to start the way back to the base.

"What about them?" Sniper gestured to the dead REDs. "We can't leave them like that."

" _Non,_ but we need to take care of the living first," Spy frowned. "And we better get back before Scout wakes up. He's annoying enough when he's _not_ freaking out. Also, someone will have to inform _monsieur_ Redmond he should start to look for some new men..."


End file.
